


Snatched!

by torpedo



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Drag Queens, Fluff, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Joly/Bossuet, Oblivious, One Shot, Reality TV, RuPaul's Drag Race References, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 03:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17195747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torpedo/pseuds/torpedo
Summary: “I have a message, and people need to hear it. And if that starts with nailing this Rocky Horror spoof lip sync extravaganza, then so be it."[A RuPaul's Drag Race Barricade Boys AU.]





	Snatched!

**Author's Note:**

> If you are not doubly obsessed with both Les Mis and RPDR, I’m afraid what follows can only be described as nonsense. (And it probably is otherwise.) In this fic, in true drag race tradition, the queens refer to each other by feminine drag pronouns interchangeably with their preferred pronouns from day to day life. There will be a link to a glossary of drag terms at the end, should you need it.  
> I’m deeply, deeply sorry for writing this.  
> But I’m not apologizing to almoststarted, for whom this was written with love.

Episode One

Grantaire is the first one through the door of the Werk Room, so right off the bat, he loses the chance at about a thousand quips that he’d been endlessly memorizing for the last hour.

“Well, fuck!” He says instead. “First one in the pool is a rotten whore!”

The producers make him go back and run it again.

“I’m here to  _ beat off _ the compe-- wait.”

The producers  _ love _ that one, so he’s in.

Even with that first rocky tumble into the gorge of drag race herstory, Grantaire doesn’t think he’s fucked right then.

He doesn’t think he’s fucked when the next queen comes into the room, turns on a dime, and drops into a neat split. (He’s right not to be intimidated. When Marius introduces herself, she’s a mess, totally unable to meet his eyes.)

He doesn’t even think he’s fucked when the fourth queen, Combeferre, saunters in, the very picture of Golden Age classic glamour in a well-oiled Las Vegas showgirl package, and reads the room to loving filth.

He thinks he’s fucked when the sixth queen walks through the door. She glowers her way into the Werk Room, perfectly beat, perfectly cinched, in a full head-to-toe rhinestone gown protesting ICE.

“My name is Enjolras,” he tells the camera, in a ringing, commanding voice, “and I’m here to  _ tear _ the house down, boots.”

“This is going to be a huge problem for me,” Grantaire mutters, right before he remembers the cameras are rolling.

So not only is Grantaire fucked, about a literal million people are going to witness it.

That seems about right.

* * *

The front row seat to the other queens that Grantaire has, being first in the door, is highly entertaining. Hopefully it ends up being useful, but hey. He sees pageant queens, body girls, artsy weirdos, a showgirl, a dance diva, and more than a few comedy queens. He immediately clicks with Bahorel, whose camp-drag fashion is flashy and flawless, and whose mug screams ‘I am a drag queen and I don’t care if I look like a man in a wig.’

Grantaire quips. He barbs. He’s charming and snarky and completely, totally out of his element and trying not to show it. 

He knows he’s good - good enough to get on the show, at the very least, to strut along with the up-and-coming who’s who of the drag world.

But technically, he’s just a costume designer. A designer who spends every moment of his spare time devoted to makeup, studying artists who are better than him, and booze. Not necessarily in that order.

He’s shaken.

He hopes it doesn’t show.

* * *

The first time they see ValJean herself, they all gag. Except Jehan, who whips out a notepad and immediately starts jotting down what turns out to be a heartfelt limerick about the impact ValJean has had on the community.

Said icon floats into the Werk Room to issue their first challenge, as unnerving as you hope a legend would be.

Grantaire is attentive, but he would probably be transfixed, were it not for the blonde Glamazon with the chip on her shoulder, glowering in a gown of immigration reform, standing beside him and making his hands shake.

Enjolras wins the first mini challenge with vicious directness.

Afterwards, when they’re divesting themselves of drag and becoming their daytime selves, Grantaire tunes out most of the comments and flirtations, staring at Enjolras in abject horror.

He’s even more beautiful as a man. Impossibly.

Grantaire twists away bitterly, grinding the eyeliner off his eye with an unsteady hand, and runs into a cameraman, trained on him.

“Oh, come on!” he mutters.

* * *

“How does this challenge make sense?” Joly complains.

Combeferre makes a questioning noise.

“We have to introduce ourselves, but we’re splitting into two teams and lip syncing as someone else?”

“It’s not very authentic to our drag personas,” Jehan agrees.

Combeferre smiles at them both. “Why, what would you want to showcase first? What’s your drag aesthetic?”

“I’m getting classic comedy queen from Miss Angelina Joly over here,” Courfeyrac chirps brightly.

“Yes,  _ thank _ you!” Joly responds. “I’ve got the music in me, where the music is Ethel Merman. And also I can’t sing.”

“I’d also prefer to showcase a few of my more unconventional talents,” Jehan adds.

“Well, it’s what we have in front of us,” Enjolras interrupts, flashing eyes around the group. They fall uncharacteristically silent. “And I for one came to win. I have to.”

“Big vacation plans?” Grantaire quips from his spot on the opposite team, but he regrets it almost immediately. The icy blue of Enjolras’ eyes, still stunning outside of drag, dismisses him after a beat.

“I have a message, and people need to hear it. And if that starts with nailing this Rocky Horror spoof lip sync extravaganza, then so be it.”

The rousing chorus of “amen” after he finishes speaking is not nearly so tongue-in-cheek as it usually is with drag queens.

“So, Captain,” Joly says eventually, to Enjolras’ shocked pleasure, “how should we cast this thing?”

* * *

It goes off with only one or two hitches. Grantaire’s makeup gets a nod on the runway, everyone gags over Enjolras icy beauty, incredible body, and command of a stage, Combeferre is immediately pegged for a pro, Jehan’s unusual eyebrow art gets some commentary, and Marius trips on the light bulbs on the stage and mispronounces ValJean.

In the face crack of the century, there are no eliminations that first episode.

  
  


Episode Two

Bossuet, it turns out, is the nice dumb one of the season.

“I’m just so excited to be here!”

“Please focus, Bossuet,” Marius begs. “We need to act in a fake vampire television drama,  _ live, on stage, in front of ValJean, tomorrow.”  _ He buries his face in his script. “I’m a dancer. There’s so much  _ acting _ .”

“I know, isn’t it great?!”

Marius just groans.

“Do you have any acting experience?” Courfeyrac interjects, apparently feeling some measure of pity for Marius’s sanity.

“Hmm…” Bossuet trails off thoughtfully. “Does yesterday count?”

* * *

Grantaire is stressing out. Possibly freaking out. Everyone notices but no one seems willing to say anything about it.

Well, almost no one.

“I think Grantaire is freaking out,” Courfeyrac, a proper showgirl, stage whispers to Joly and Bossuet, who are determinedly not making moon eyes at each other. Courfeyrac, it turns out, is willing to say almost anything.

“I can  _ hear _ you,” Grantaire grits out.

Unabashed, Courfeyrac goes over and settles near him, various curious queens trailing in his wake like excitable ducklings in heels. “So what’s up, Buttercup? That shade of purple said something rude about your mother?”

“If it did, the shade of purple would be correct. Also, like, a modern marvel.” Grantaire throws the fabric in question down onto the work table in a huff. “I’m freaking out about what we’re all freaking out about, right? I have got one chance. One. I am not going to blow it this time.”

“But you do a great job!” Bossuet says, smiling. “Just have fun. Drag is fun!”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, gathering up sewing pins and placing them between his lips for safe keeping, “right up until you have to look Eponine in her cold, dead eyes and get read to filth.”

A low murmur of agreement goes through the room, except for Courfeyrac, who never so much ‘murmurs’ as ‘shouts slightly less loudly’.

“Really?” Jehan asks, fidgeting with his top hat. “I’m more intimidated by Montparnasse.”

“You’re wrong!” Bossuet and Joly say in perfect unison. Their eyes lock from across the room, and they both slowly smile. Joly has great dimples.

“Eww,” Grantaire opines, with great emphasis. But he can’t help but glance over at where Enjolras has lost a hand in his hair, apparently trying to work the glass ceiling into their challenge.

Beyond his first dismissive glare, Enjolras has never glanced at Grantaire once.

“But Montparnasse has a  _ fashion _ background,” Jehan is insisting, “and well, to be honest… sometimes my drag is… contentious.”

“Weird. He means weird,” Courfeyrac stage whispers.

“I am an  _ artiste _ ,” Jehan complains, “and I shouldn’t have to compromise that.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Grantaire’s grin is all cheshire. “And we will speak fondly of you after your lip sync.”

“Shut up, and take those ghastly things out of your mouth.”

“It’s old school.”

“It’s disturbing.”

“It’s unsanitary!” Joly adds.

* * *

After the viewing of the vampire drama and the grueling runway reading, Feuilly carries the win with his incredible, transformative beat and his old Hollywood glam, Enjolras quick on his heels as runner-up. Marius is the first eliminated from the main stage. No one is surprised.

  
  


Episode Three

“Move out of the way, Grantaire!” Courfeyrac screeches, pushing him out of the way of the crafting supplies. “Bottoms, UP!”

“Rude,” Grantaire replies breezily. “Presumptuous, and rude.”

Courfeyrac freezes in place, turns around, and looks him up and down, well-muscled body and all.

Enjolras scoffs.

“What, you think I can’t show you  _ versatility,  _ Athena?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Enjolras. And then he promptly snatches up all the cool-toned green materials he can find.

“Finally, an easy challenge!” Jehan cries with glee.

“A drag on a dime, dollar store challenge?” Bossuet cries. “I can’t sew!”

“Better learn quick,” Grantaire quips, party hats in hand, “or get to packing.”

Feuilly absconds with literally all the glitter ribbon and all the trash bags. “I am not concerned.”

“One could say that we have our work,” Grantaire holds up his scissors, “cut out for us.”   
“Bitch, STOP.”

Sewing is hardly the most important part of the found items, thrift store drag challenge anyway, which everyone figures out real quick when there is a big run on hot glue gun sticks. 

Grantaire watches the producers run off to find armfuls of the stuff, and in the lull he takes some time to think. And by think, he definitely means doubt himself.

He watches with clouded vision as the other girls begin to chat, moving about the room to comment and read and frankly check out the competition.

It is three episodes in, and one thing that seems clear to everyone, perhaps except Grantaire, is that Grantaire is  _ fucking talented. _ Grantaire makes beautiful, artsy outfits that manage to keep being suitable to the challenges.

It’s well established that everything in his collection is his  _ own _ , of his own  _ make _ , and everything he touches becomes art.

Even worse, as Feuilly pointed out in a mock-jealous-but-still-slightly-jealous way backstage, he's funny. Not just in his constant, incessant reading, but in the acting challenges as well. And he can paint for the gods, which is lucky.

As Grantaire has said, he is not a beautiful man out of drag.

Of course, Courfeyrac pointed out that rough trade is still trade, but to that point, his physique doesn’t exactly sell feminine beauty either. 

So, he can beat, dress, act, read, throw shade, and construct for the gods.

He only has one problem, and it is an unfortunately massive one.

“This is garbage.”

Grantaire lacks confidence.

Feuilly looks over at him. “In what world?”

“In this one. Look at it, it’s garbage.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes. “I’m not here to baby you, and if you’re fishing for compliments-”

“I’m not, I swear! ‘Fish’ and ‘Grantaire’? Never the two shall meet. I was born a butch queen, and I will die a man in a wig.”

“That’s beside the point.” Enjolras’ voice cracks out like a whip, all the sharper for his long silences. Grantaire can’t control his face, his body. He’s pulled tight like a guitar string and he doesn’t even know why.  “Drag is an art, a loving tribute and scathing indictment of performative female gender roles in equal measure. Drag is not, and has never been, about perfect female impersonation.”

Grantaire wasn’t implying otherwise, but when he opens up his mouth to say so, what comes out is, “Well, that’s rich, coming from you.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Maybe drag isn’t always about the prettiest girl, and yeah, maybe you think it shouldn’t be. But like it or not, Apollo, that’s what a lot of people turn up to see. And let me tell you, they’re turning up for you.”

“Does one have to be fishy to be a queen then?” Enjolras’s voice surges forward like a tidal wave, threatening a total obliteration Grantaire doesn’t even understand. “What of the girls who are never ‘passing’? Is their drag not ‘good drag’ to you?”

“Come off it,” Grantaire snaps, clearly incensed for once instead of bullshitting. “You think you have any right to stand there, in all your white, blond, Eurocentric, perfect fishy glory and talk to  _ me _ , or  _ anyone else here _ , about passing?”

“Easy, easy,” Combeferre says then, cutting off Enjolras’ response with a sharp look that undermines his gentle tone. “Let’s be civil, ladies. We all put our gaffs on one leg at a time.”

Grantaire doesn’t buy in, however, and gathers up his fabrics. “I’m working elsewhere. Enjolras is up on her high horse, and I forgot my fucking step stool.”

“You’ll be missed,” Enjolras spits at his back.

* * *

For all that, Grantaire wins his first challenge, edging out Feuilly by a hair. Courfeyrac gets read for relying on his body-ody-ody, but misses the bottom two by the skin of his teeth. Bahorel, a fashion icon with an extensive pageant wardrobe they all envy, chokes at having to construct her own garments, bombs her lip sync, and is eliminated.

  
  


Episode Four

“I’m scared of Feuilly. Feuilly is street.”

“Street?”

“As in, the Mean Streets.”

“Oh, I always wondered where those really were!”

“They came out of the metaphor that birthed Feuilly - no, stop, don’t  _ look at him! _ ”

“Oh, hey,” says Feuilly from across the room. He brandishes a glue gun. “Y’all talking shit?”

“No! No no no.”

“Okay. Just checking!”

* * *

“So, we have to make a commercial, for… wait, what are making a commercial for?”

“Oh my God, Bossuet.”

“ValJean’s new shoe line, Get to Steppin’,” Grantaire answers, very helpfully, he thinks.

“Ah yes, very important stuff,” Courf says blithely. “But I have an even  _ more  _ important question. Who do we think is the sexiest queen here?”

“Not the fishiest?” Jehan asks. “Isn’t that the usual question?”

Without being prompted, everyone points at Enjolras, who huffs good-naturedly.

“Fair enough,” Jehan giggles.

“Well, we all know Courf wants it to be her-”

“SHADE!” Courf screeches. “I cannot help if I am literally liquid sex appeal!”

“-but Grantaire wins it on sheer gumption,” Joly finishes grandly.

Grantaire makes a low, seductive hum from behind his dress form. “When I’m good, I’m very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better, big fella.”

“Oh, are we doing Mae West?” Combeferre interjects brightly.

“Ferre! You’re still here!” Grantaire returns. Combeferre, like Enjolras, is frequently quiet in the Werk Room, preferring to focus. “Lay it on me.”

“That’s what they all say,” Combeferre purrs back. The impression is flawless, all the old Hollywood glam that Combeferre is known for.  “To err is human - but it feels divine.”

Everyone begins chipping in, but Enjolras, a sulking, shining, malcontent, fierce, sharp, fragile,  _ beautiful _ fish, the glowing gem of the season, could not do sultry to save her life. She stays on the outskirts, and smiles.

The grin falls sharply off her face when she catches Grantaire staring.

“ _ What? _ ”

“Just admiring the scenery,” Grantaire answers with a wink. Enjolras flushes red to his roots and storms away, and Grantaire cackles to hide his chagrin.

* * *

Joly freaks out on the set of the commercial and forgets all her lines. Bossuet and Joly are in the bottom together, and after a close, impassioned lip sync battle, Joly is eliminated.

  
  


Episode Five

“All right. No tea, no shade, but I figured out who Courfeyrac is,” Feuilly confides in Grantaire.

“Just now? Good God.”

“No, I mean, in the season. Courf is the funny queen who is not really as good, but somehow sticks around until the final four and you're like, ‘Wait, why? Why is she here?’ But then you’re like, ‘Oh, well, I like Courf.’”

“You have a gift for expression.” Grantaire pauses in her notes. “You’re not wrong, though. I think she’ll definitely make it farther than Bossuet.”

“Well, what is a roast, anyway?” Bossuet is overheard saying at just that moment. “Are we cooking?”

“Oh, Bossuet. You’re pretty, but you’re simple,” Grantaire calls. “Come here and let me help you.”

* * *

“I think I have a joke,” Feuilly tells Grantaire, abruptly appearing in his space. Grantaire jumps a little. “But I need an obscure celebrity that people will still recognize to tie it up.”

“Ask Jehan. She’s the weird, poetic drag queen of the season.”

“What does THAT mean?” Jehan asks.

“Girl, I don’t have the time. Go look in the mirror, then go stand in front of your clothing rack, then go look at your Instagram, then go to your Ouija board and consult with the doting ghost of Irving Berlin, and then come back here.”

Jehan just stares at him.

“And then come here and I’ll give you a hug?”

“Should I call shade? Is that what’s happening?” Jehan shrugs, not entirely gracefully. “I don’t get you kids, with your slang and whatnot.”

“Bitch, you are the  _ youngest queen here,  _ don’t even start with that!” Grantaire crows.

“Children, children, back to your notes!” Combeferre calls out. “You are supposed to be reading ValJean, not each other.”

“Yeah, put that sarcasm to good use, divas,” Courfeyrac agrees. “Because we have to read a legend, and it better be funny.”

* * *

“Bossuet, how do you think you did?”

Bossuet looks at the video monitor, at his cast mates, and back at the judges.

“I… uh. I was perfect!” he announces brightly. “And this ship is unsinkable!”

“Should I draw you like one of my French girls?” Grantaire asks, drawing a round of laughter from the judges. Enjolras frowns.

“Please be respectful of the critique process,” she snaps in a whisper. Grantaire’s smile slides off her face like a sliding thing.

“Tell me to jump, and I will, captain,” he mutters back.

“Something I can help you with, ladies?” ValJean snaps, making them both startle and apologize.

Unsurprisingly, Grantaire does well at the stand-up comedy challenge. Unsurprisingly, Enjolras does not, and ends up in the bottom two with Bossuet.

* * *

Behind the scenes, Grantaire is drinking too much and won’t stop staring at Enjolras. Enjolras keeps telling him to stop mocking him.

“I thought Enjolras was supposed to be the smart queen?” Bossuet asks no one in particular.

Bossuet is eliminated.

  
  


Episode Six

Enjolras is not the shadiest queen of the season, except when she fucking is.

“Well, you heard the man and/or woman. Buckle up, ladies, it is the Snatch Game!” Jehan hollers.

“Oh no, oh God,” Courfeyrac replies numbly.

“I don’t know why you’re tripping. She brings it to you every season.”

Grantaire moves across the room to Combeferre’s workspace. “Baby, who are you doing?”

“I was going to do Bette Davis-”

“Bitch, I hope the fuck you do!” Feuilly hollers.

“-but since Feuilly has the market, I was going for Marilyn Monroe.”

“Of course you are. And - oh my God. Look at this wig. How dare you? This wig is EVERYTHING. My wig is nothing.”

“Your  _ drag _ is nothing.”

Grantaire whips around, eyebrows up. “Well, well, well. Enjolras is here to join the fray. Look who’s all bitter because she just found out she can’t sell funny with that pretty face of hers.”

“I’m a very serious and intense person,” Enjolras shoots back, with all the unintentionally comedic sincerity in the world. “I will struggle, but I can prevail.”

Grantaire tamps down whatever too-telling expression is trying to take over his face. “Well, you do that, gorgeous. But don’t come for my drag until you check yours.”

“And your drag is what exactly?”

“Gee, I don’t know. A devoted send-up of every woman who ruined my adolescence?”

“Oh, shit,” Courfeyrac calls from across the room, “is  _ that _ what your mom looks like?!”

Grantaire laughs along, as loud as anyone, and heads back to his workspace, and tells himself to push it down and keep it together, over, and over, and over.

The cameramen follow him. He barely notices.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, he’s let it get to him.

“Maybe Enjolras is right. Maybe my drag  _ is _ nothing.”

“Oh come on. He didn’t even mean that. We all believe in you, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac reassures. “The only thing you need is to believe in yourself.”

“Oh, it’s that easy, girl?”

“Damn right. Now put on that wig and give us your best Sigourney Weaver, or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

“Fine, fine.” He looks at Courfeyrac’s dress form, and then back at Courf, one eyebrow raised. “Is that all you’re wearing?”

Courfeyrac glances up from his bodysuit with a scowl. “Do you think I’m relying on my body?”

Grantaire hums. “I think you’re  _ using _ it.”

“That’s what I said! And no one is accusing  _ Enjolras _ of relying on his body!” Courfeyrac sulks. “He wears skimpy stuff all the time.”

“God help us all, but he sure does.” Courf rolls his eyes. “But we aren’t talking about him, and besides, he wears his more pointedly, that’s all. Show the judges versatility, babe.”

Courfeyrac’s face wavers in uncertainty. Grantaire sighs and plops down next to him.

“Give me some paper, body queen,” he scowls. “Let’s add some structure to that silhouette.”

“You are a literal angel!” Courf squeals.

Grantaire decidedly does not cast his eyes over to where Enjolras is no doubt looking the very avenging angel of mythos.

* * *

At the same moment, on the other side of the room, Enjolras pulls a face. “I see Grantaire is getting another pep talk.”

“Calm down, Enj,” Combeferre soothes. “We all have nerves.”

Enjolras continues to scowl from the far end of the Werk Room. “How is he going to be the Next Drag Superstar without any confidence?”

“Oh, come on, Enjolras. Grantaire is the literal best.” Combeferre stops. “I’m trying to destroy him, and I still think so. He’s the best.”

“Yeah. But how can you be the best if you don't believe in yourself?”

* * *

Enjolras’s choice to tie his natural intensity to an overbearing Joan Crawford is a smart one. Effervescent Courf shocks them all by tumbling into the bottom two with his ill-timed Miley Cyrus jokes, but Jehan’s Judith Butler is a little too literal and not at all funny, and she is eliminated.

  
  


Episode Seven

“This is the makeover challenge. It’s one of the most memorable episodes of any season,” Courfeyrac mutters to Combeferre.

“Are you sweating it?” 

“I’m sweating it.”

Feuilly pats him on the back. “Me, too.”

“Oh, shut up. Your beats are legendary, Feuilly.” Courfeyrac drops his head onto the table and whimpers. “The bottom two is a horrible place and  _ I don’t want to go back. _ ”

“Just put your head down and do this thing,” Combeferre urges, moving back over to his drag daughter.

“It’s just a lot of pressure,” Courfeyrac says, staring into the middle distance forlornly. “It’s… it’s a lot.”

And that’s when Enjolras comes over to join them.

* * *

“Poor Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says later.

“Poor Grantaire? Why?”

Courfeyrac laughs over the craft services table and gestures off, where Enjolras has moved on from giving a heartfelt pep talk to Courf and is now giving a heartfelt pep talk to Feuilly, his voice expansive and inspiring. Meanwhile, nearby Grantaire is frozen, hot glue gun in hand, staring, eyes shining, expression mercurial and somehow radiant.

“Ah. Yes.”

“I’m going to break this up before Grantaire ends up broken. HEY ENJOLRAS!”

Enjolras whips around. “Courf?”

“You’re being a drag mom to the wrong person! Go teach your partner.”

* * *

“He can’t walk in heels,” Feuilly says shrilly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Grantaire responds, taking Feuilly by the hand and forcing him to look him in the eye.. “It  _ literally _ doesn’t matter. Everyone makes a big deal about it, but it has  _ never _ mattered in a makeover challenge. Everyone knows they aren’t drag queens. Beat him for the gods and give him your personality. That’s all that matters.”

“Exactly,” says Courfeyrac, playing with the tassels on Grantaire’s dress form. “My queen has all the attitude. She’s feeling herself. So we’re not really worried about the choreography.”

“Wait. So, you’re just…going to  _ wing _ it?” Grantaire asks, despairing.

“It’s called  _ ad libbing _ .”

“Man, I wish I could do that,” Grantaire says with a nervy shrug of his shoulders. “I have to plan every step of  _ everything _ , or I’ll freak out.”

 

In the end, Grantaire was right to plan it, and he makes it to the Top Four at the head of the pack. Enjolras couldn’t make his edgy, contentious style stick on someone else. He and Courfeyrac are in the bottom two. And Courfeyrac slays her lip sync just a little bit better.

Enjolras is eliminated.

  
  


Episode Eight

Grantaire definitely mopes when Enjolras goes home.

“Quit moping.”

“I’m not moping.”

“Oh, really? Quick poll! Who thinks this bitch is moping?”

“This bitch,” Grantaire says snidely, pushing up out of his chair, “is stressing over how to make three, count them,  _ three _ original looks for this Ball.”

“WHO HAS EVEN HEARD OF A BALL BALL?!” Feuilly complains from somewhere near the floor.

“Sports Ball of Fame, Ballbreaker Executive Realness, and Crystal Ball Extravaganza,” Grantaire lists off, pretends to tick off boxes. “Clearly, the producers are…. having a ball.”

“The ball is really in ValJean’s court on this one,” Courfeyrac rejoins.

“Yeah, so we really have to throw the judges a curve ball.” Grantaire can’t resist cracking a grin, drifting back to where they’re all gathered around the table - and in Feuilly’s case, the floor.

“Guys, no,” Feuilly mutters.

“Not my fault,” Combeferre adds, “Grantaire got the ball rolling.”

“What can I say? I’m on the ball.”

“I said no. Please,” Feuilly whines.

“Come on, buddy, this is a whole new ball game!” Courfeyrac cackles.

“Is Feuilly going to drop the ball?”

“What a sleaze ball!”

* * *

Much later, when Grantaire asks, “Who’s going to be the bell of the ball?” Feuilly throws an entire wig at him.

* * *

“I can’t do this anymore.” Courfeyrac pushes the glue gun away and nurses her burnt fingers. “I don’t have any more ideas. My looks are crazy. I am TRIPPING BALLS.”

Feuilly screams from the craft services table.

“On the other hand, I am DRIPPING balls.”

“Combeferre! How could you?” Feuilly cries.

“I couldn’t help myself. Look at my beaded fringe,” he says, brandishing it.

* * *

“Is using blue balls in my design too gauche?” 

“Grantaire, I swear to God.”

* * *

Even later, Grantaire pulls Combeferre as far out of earshot as he can. Unfortunately, the cameras still catch everything. Grantaire knows it, but he is resigned to it at this point.

“Does everyone know?”

“Yes.”

“ _ Everyone _ ?”

“Yes.” 

“Does  _ Enjolras _ know?!”

“Oh. Well, not everyone.”

* * *

“I’m not tucking today. I’m going balls out,” Courfeyrac says, much later.

“Yeah, balls to the walls,” Grantaire adds.

“Quit breaking my balls!” Feuilly shouts, in equal measures furious and proud.

The other queens give her a round of applause.

* * *

Courfeyrac is not the bell of the ball, it turns out, and is eliminated.

  
  


Interlude:

Enjolras is a Smart Queen, but perhaps not a smart queen.

But Enjolras is not clueless forever. He discovers Grantaire’s abject, burning love for him as the damn thing airs on television. He and Combeferre have met up and are hosting the third straight viewing party at a local club before he catches on.

By the eighth episode, he is equally furious and embarrassed.

“Combeferre, how could I have missed it?”

Combeferre laughs. “I literally have no idea. No one has any idea. The boy is so obvious.”

“I thought he was just joking around and, and... play flirting!”

“Are you always this oblivious?”

And the funny thing is, Enjolras is not always. He knows what he looks like, in and out of drag. He does pretty well for himself.

Yet now, he stands in the back of a crowded nightclub full of well-meaning fans who keep looking back at him over their shoulders knowingly. Knowing his shame. Knowing that he sat there, filming this show, not knowing the thing he should have known when it was happening.

  
  


Episode Nine: The Finale

It is inevitable. The night of the big, live finale arrives.

Well, they aren’t live anymore. Too many years of spoiled endings and drama bombs have led to triple filmings of each possible crowning, but that’s beside the point.

Outside on the red carpet, everyone is dressed to the nines, the tens, and the elevens. The Pit Crew is posing for pictures. Previous queens are showing off and lauding and condemning everyone they can in front of every camera they can.

Grantaire feels like she’s going to be sick, but also like she’s in her element. Her look is all geometric, jewel tones cutaways and mesh.

Feuilly and Combeferre, the other finalists, also wear jewel tones in their own ways.

And despite himself, Grantaire can’t help but take special notice of Enjolras, too. She wears a rainbow cape, cinched around her body. When she turns, the back reads, “LOVE IS OUR RESISTANCE.” Ever the political queen.

* * *

ValJean is incandescent when she finally takes the stage, and the audience lives for it. Each of the queens has a minute to chat with the Queen of Queens - on national television, possibly to their national embarrassment - and before she knows it, Grantaire’s up.

“Hello, America!” he calls out to the crowd, who respond with an enthusiasm that astounds him. “No need to adjust your TV sets-- I look better out of focus.”

ValJean laughs mightily in surprise, along with everyone present.

“What? I’m serious! My favorite photo filter is Blur.”

“That wit of yours,” ValJean struggles, dabbing a tear from his eye. “It’s easy to see how you charmed the nation so easily behind the scenes.”

After the requisite chats about how being on the show has changed her life - and it has, obviously, how couldn’t it? - Grantaire cannot escape.

ValJean asks about his obvious smitten with Enjolras behavior, right there during the live show. Grantaire gamefully tries to deflect, citing the usual “tensions are high, emotions are high, hormones are definitely high and also bound terribly by the isolation” lines, when there is an interruption.

“Excuse me, ValJean? I would like to field that question.”

ValJean and Grantaire turn to see Enjolras rising from the row of contestants on stage right. He steps to the center, and whisks off his rainbow shawl, and his inner dress has the corniest reveal of all time. The whole thing is embroidered with sequined heart outlines. In each heart is a capital R.

“Everyone kept saying I was supposed to be the smart queen, but by now we all know how dumb that is. I couldn’t even see what was right in front of me.”

Grantaire, still perched next to ValJean, feels like he is possibly supposed to have a reaction. Some sort of reaction. His face should be in his control. He doesn’t know what his face is doing.

“But don’t worry. Like the rest of America, I had the chance to watch the whole season, and fall a little bit in love with Grantaire.”

So Enjolras asks Grantaire out on live TV. They don’t kiss, though many people clamor for it. They’re adults, for crying out loud. But they do hug. When they embrace, everyone can see that he has Team Grantaire on the back of his outfit.

* * *

Later, when the winner is announced on national TV weeks after the filming itself, everyone finds out that Grantaire won the title that night.

But then, everyone kind of knows he felt like a winner anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> The queens don’t have Drag Names in the fic simply because I felt it was too confusing in a one-shot to keep track of who was who. HOWEVER, I DID GIVE THEM NAMES. Consider this a bonus round.
> 
> Marius is Anna Winter. (It is a pun on Anna Wintour, and I am not sorry for giving him a lame pun.)  
> Bahorel is Madam LaGuardia.  
> Joly is Poppy Corny.  
> Bossuet is Jimmy Shoe.  
> Jehan is Sycamore. There is no explanation.  
> Enjolras is Parapluie Rebel (This is a stupid play on words, and I am stupidly proud of it, and I hope I wasn’t the only one with [this poster](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parapluie_Revel#/media/File:Parapluie-revel.jpg) in their first apartment.)  
> Courfeyrac is Dijon Frise. He makes a lot of Hot Dog jokes.  
> Feuilly is Petty Davis.  
> Combeferre is Cameron Cabaret.  
> Grantaire is Jo Incidence.
> 
>  
> 
> [Glossary of terms, kind of.](http://rupaulsdragrace.wikia.com/wiki/RuPaul%27s_Drag_Race_Dictionary)
> 
>  
> 
> If you didn't hate me for this, mayhaps you could [buy me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/B0B3111IZ) and win my eternal and somewhat baffled gratitude. <3


End file.
